


waking up in a minefield

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: now you're the future [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-15 14:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11232645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: “I don’t know you,” she snapped. “Any of you. All I know is that none of you trusted me, or your own strength, when it was needed. None of you were willing to act when the time for action came. The only Rebels who had my back are dead.” She jerked her head in the direction of the tank. “Except him.”(Sequel topart of the past, but now you're the futureand overlapping within tongues and quiet sighs.





	1. Mothma

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I’m still making my way through the Rebelcaptain Appreciation Week prompts. This one is for “Undercover,” and … it grew, so I split it into ~~halves~~ quarters. Also, it's a looser take on the theme than usual for me.
> 
> (AKA, no one is actually undercover.)

For the last time, Jyn hoped, Cassian floated in a bacta tank. And for the first time, he didn’t have a brace. At least, they said so. She’d averted her eyes after one glance, instead studying the datapad she’d filched with an interest they did not often command.

Maybe it was prudish, but she felt odd about ogling his naked body when he didn’t know about it, and hadn’t given permission. Not that he’d been in a condition to give permission for anything, between the disconnected questions and dazed, black-eyed stare. Cassian with the brakes off was funny as much as anything else—at least, until he asked anxiously about her leaving—but he couldn’t answer for any of it. And it wasn’t like they’d talked about bacta tank etiquette, anyway.

Jyn didn’t know exactly what they were right now, or would be. But she did know that if she ever ended up in a situation with Cassian naked, he sure as hell was going to be awake for it.

As she entertained herself with trying to crack the paranoid layers of encryption on Cassian’s datapad, Jyn caught near-silent footsteps behind her. Pretending not to notice, she held herself ready for anything.

“Miss Erso,” said Mon Mothma.

Jyn started. Okay, maybe not anything.

She’d met with Senator Mothma twice since their return, but never expected to find her here. Though certainly a good sight more reasonable and capable than the other politicians, Mothma didn’t seem to soil herself much with the grimmer side of her war.

“How is Captain Andor?” she said, looking straight at the tank.

A sense of boundaries clearly did not afflict _her_. Typical. Jyn would have liked to make some brusque, dismissive reply that left her contempt clear. But, she reminded herself, there was no point in alienating the leader of the Rebellion. She seemed accommodating enough, prepared to make the easier compromises, and some vague instinct suggested that they might need allies in High Command at some point.

She said, “Better. They’re certain he’ll walk.”

“Walk,” repeated the senator. “More than that, I hope.”

Jyn couldn’t repress a cool glance at her. “So do we all.” For different reasons, undoubtedly. She still had yet to meet anyone who used his given name. Frankly, Jyn felt surprised that Mothma would go this far out of her way to enquire after a spy.

That moderated her antipathy somewhat. Trying to sound less begrudging than she felt, Jyn said,

“They ran some tests, and everything seems to be going right with the cybernetics. Odds are that he’ll be fine.”

“As good as new?” Mothma said doubtfully, peering at the tank. He must still look bad.

“They didn’t say that,” replied Jyn.

With no hint of impatience, Mothma asked, “What did they say?”

Jyn had no idea why she didn’t just ask the damn doctors themselves. Forcing herself to courtesy, she said, “They think he’ll probably walk normally, if everything continues to go well, and if he builds the muscle back up. Oh, and if the cybernetics don’t take damage, or the rest of his nerves, and there might be effects from weather or exhaustion or …” She shrugged. “I don’t think anyone can crunch up their spine and come back exactly the same. But functional, sure.”

Though Jyn half-expected her to lose interest in a weakened tool—rather hoped for it—Mothma just gave a neutral  _hm_.

Jyn waited her out. Nobody would call her patient, but she didn’t like talking to people. She could keep her mouth shut indefinitely.

“What of your injuries, Miss Erso?”

“They’re fine.” Again, she reminded herself that it might be worthwhile to play nice. For awhile. “Just a sprain and a fracture. Bacta patches completely healed them. It’s Cassian who …” Jyn felt a flutter in her throat, and stopped before it could grow into a full-fledged crack. She cleared her voice. “I had the plans, so Captain Andor covered me. He believed in the mission, and he was ready to do anything. We both were.”

_You better not be thinking about punishing him for it._ Jyn didn’t speak the thought; her hands already curled into fists at the very idea. From childhood, she’d had a protective streak a parsec wide, at least when she had people _to_ protect. A month ago, she would have sworn it gone, but … well, that was a month ago.

If there’d been any lingering doubt, it vanished the moment that she turned back to Cassian at the top of the Citadel. When she really looked at him, rushed over to him, she saw the truth: he hadn’t been restored to her by some miracle, but by his own determination to carry on despite a broken, bleeding body. Cassian, always so effortlessly accurate, could barely hold his blaster up—could barely hold himself up.

Raw fury had flashed in her like a supernova. She swerved towards Krennic’s body, no longer caring that he was unconscious, that she didn’t have a blaster, nothing except that she was going to tear his fucking arms off. Only Cassian’s weak grasp stopped her, his murmurs against her skin, the reminder that they had to get out. 

It was like being a girl again, enraged over Saw’s latest injury, over the wounds and disappearances of the others, over every stormtrooper she saw. When she was constantly flung back to the moment when her mother’s body crumpled, when her father… 

Late at night, she’d console herself with the thought of finding Galen, destroying anyone and anything that kept them apart, that hurt him, making them all pay. But those had been a child’s fantasies. With Cassian, she rushed straight to murder.

Not that she had any idea of murdering Mothma, or even Draven, unless—no, she didn’t. But she was perfectly happy to fight them. She’d seen enough to know that Cassian would grind himself into dust at their word.

“Evidently,” said Mothma; Jyn had spiraled so far into her thoughts that she had to strain to recall what she’d even said. Right, the mission, Cassian taking the brunt of the damage because she had the plans. And Mothma was _still talking._ “That sounds like Captain Andor.”

Jyn gave up. “Are you this interested in all your spies, or is it just Cassian?”

“Captain Andor is one of the most effective agents in the Rebellion,” Mothma answered. Or rather, didn’t answer.

But that was enough. In a mad dash of association, it all came together. Draven this morning, and Mothma now—Mothma not just concerned about Cassian, but about Cassian returning to his old capabilities—Draven startled out of composure and rushing off—and Cassian with his unbending faith, often obedient, always resourceful and decisive and resolute—

“Something’s happened,” Jyn said. She swerved around to face Mothma directly, repressing the urge to raise a hand against her peripheral vision. Instead, she focused all her attention on the senator. “You need Cassian for something. What is it?”

_Already?_

Mothma clearly had a skill for wrapping words around nothing. “Need, no. Plainly, the captain is not yet capable of returning to service. He is too valuable for high risk with little chance of success, in any case. And the risk is all the higher now.” Her blue eyes settled on Jyn, as unnervingly tranquil as ever. “Nothing could be salvaged of K-2SO?”

Jyn’s throat tightened. _Kay would be delighted_ , he’d said, with a sharp-edged laugh that sent a chill of sympathy down her own spine. It seemed utterly unlike him, and yet the only way he _would_ laugh. She suspected hers might be the same, if she had enough drugs in her blood to extract it, to unearth her tangled feelings about Saw or her parents. Instead, Jyn forced herself to lightness, as she’d forced herself to a reassuring smile in the Citadel. _One step closer to droid superiority._

Not empty words, though. She had no doubts but that Kay _would_ have been thrilled.

“Nothing,” said Jyn. “He protected us until stormtroopers blasted him to smithereens, and we had to leave his”— _corpse_ was all she could think of—“remains behind to reach the plans in time.”

Kay and Bodhi, Chirrut and Baze. _Please, Papa, let this be worth it._

Mothma shook her head. “So Andor is doubly vulnerable now. Definitely a needless risk, then.”

Did all the Alliance command talk in circles? No wonder they got nothing done.

“Doubly vulnerable?”

The senator’s brows rose. “Certainly, with permanent damage and no droid watching his back. We can only hope that he recovers enough to—well, please extend my best wishes to him.” With her usual grace, she pivoted to leave.

“He has me,” Jyn said sharply. She didn’t know if this was a deliberate trap or not, and she didn’t care. She'd said the same thing to that damn medical droid, and she'd say it to anyone else who doubted her, too.

As ever, Mothma gave nothing away. She stilled, then turned back around with all her usual serenity.

“You made a formidable team,” she allowed. “Clearly, you work well together.”

Jyn didn’t need to hear a _however_ to catch it. “But?”

“Few intelligence operations are as … hectic as this one,” said Mothma, no condemnation in her clear gaze. “Intelligence agents do our most thankless and dangerous work, but that work takes patience and caution. In many cases, they have no orders to guide them beyond the objective, no support in the field. They often spend months undercover.”

Jyn had lived for _years_ under false identities. She knew plenty about living undercover, even if she’d been directionless and rash with no end but survival. And she certainly didn’t mind depending on herself, without some general dictating her every choice. She wouldn’t be able to stand anything else.

Before she could put the words together, Mothma went on,

“You appear to be a fine fighter, and plainly have strong leadership skills. Thanks to your actions on Scarif, you’re a hero to the Alliance, an inspiration to our troops. You precipitated our first victory. We certainly could use you—”

“I’m not a soldier,” Jyn told her, voice flat. “Not any more.”

“You could be again,” said Mothma. “Not a foot soldier, mind you. A leader.”

She could all but hear the Jyn of the past shouting _no!_ Not that she needed her.

“You’ve seen my record,” Jyn said. “I’m happy to brawl when I need to, but I’m a thief and a slicer. My entire life has been covert.”

Mothma paused to consider that, or perhaps Jyn herself. Either way, it provided time to breathe and think, to translate blurry determination into words. Oddly reminded of facing Krennic, she lifted her chin, eyes steady on Mothma’s.

“I’m not here to be a symbol for the Alliance,” said Jyn. She could feel something within her settle into unshakable certainty, sinking into her blood and bones. Was this how Cassian felt all the time? “I’m not here for the Alliance at all. I’m here to make problems for the Empire.”

“You can do that with us,” Mothma assured her. She wasn’t listening.

Jyn abandoned the last scraps of tact.

“I don’t know you,” she snapped. “Any of you. All I know is that none of you trusted me, or your own strength, when it was needed. None of you were willing to act when the time for action came. The only Rebels who had my back are dead.” She jerked her head in the direction of the tank. “Except him.”

Mothma’s calm gave way to … well, a different calm. More reflective, maybe. Slowly, she said,

“So Captain Andor is the only person in the Alliance you trust enough to support?”

_The only person in the galaxy._

“Trust goes both ways,” said Jyn.

The last time she said that, it had been pure insolence, just daring Cassian to make something of the blaster she stole from him. She’d felt a nice glow of satisfaction at fulfilling the suspicions of a disdainful, skeptical spy who treated _her_ as the untrustworthy one, when he couldn’t afford to alienate her. Petty, perhaps—definitely—but Jyn had never pretended not to be. Now, though, it was nothing more or less than the truth.

Well, maybe a little petty.

Rather to her disappointment, Mothma betrayed none of the frustration that Cassian had. She just made one of her indistinct thoughtful sounds.

Jyn sighed. “Look, I want to fight the Empire. I know the Rebellion is the only thing with a chance of taking it on. I’m more than ready to support the one Rebel I know and trust, to the death if necessary.” Her teeth clenched, another _but_ nearly hanging in the air. “But your revolution has taken everything I ever had. I’m not going to be a symbol. I’m not going to be chewed up and spat out again.”

“Hm,” said Mothma.

Maybe she didn’t know what to say. Jyn supposed that few people, would be-heroes or not, presumed to dictate terms to the leader of the Alliance. This might be remarkably tolerant by Mothma standards. If so, why did she bother? It still seemed odd that she’d come all this way in person over a spy, however valuable, however much she may have hoped to put him in the field sooner rather than later. Jyn’s conviction that something had gone wrong only deepened.

“Senator,” she said, enunciating each syllable with precise clarity, “ _what happened?_ ”

Tolerant of Jyn, concerned for Cassian … no. No, no—

“The plans,” she breathed. She’d been run ragged between debriefings and overseeing Cassian and more interrogations, but nobody so much as hinted that something might have gone wrong with the transmission. “Where are they? Did they get here?”

For once, Mothma visibly tensed, her lips pressing together. “Yes. About six hours ago.”

“Hours!” They’d been here for _days._ While she was squabbling with nurses and droids between Cassian’s surgeries, demanding explanations from the doctor, answering questions, the plans had been—where?

“They were received by an agent of ours,” said Mothma. “Leia Organa. She managed to dispose of the plans before being captured by the Empire, but escaped and recovered them. We’re completing our analysis now.”

Jyn remembered Draven’s abrupt departure this morning, his startled _Leia?_ _Now?_

“And?” she demanded.

“The Death Star was tracking her,” Mothma said flatly. “It will reach us within the day. We must hope that your father’s sabotage suffices.”

Jyn’s mouth dried. “Are w—you evacuating?”

“As much nonessential personnel as possible,” said Mothma. “Do you wish to be included?”

_No_ , she thought instantly. She’d barely escaped her father’s monstrosity once, and had no desire to ever see it again. But it was, in a way, his legacy. She couldn’t leave the fight now, even if she wanted to, even though she couldn’t do much of anything at this point.

She couldn’t leave Cassian, either. Until this month, Jyn had been abandoned by everyone she’d ever cared about. Until Cassian, who risked his life and his mission to come back for her, again and again and again. Privately, she wondered if he knew what that meant—knew that she’d never desert him as others had deserted her. Had there been no shuttle, with Cassian dead weight, she wouldn’t have so much as considered escape. She would have stayed with him to the end.

Jyn remembered his immediate assent to listing her as next of kin, their hands nervously tangled together, and thought that if he didn’t know, he hoped nevertheless.

“I told you,” she said, irritable. “I’m staying with Captain Andor.” They could try to restrict the evacuation to the wounded, but she didn’t care. She’d find a way.

Mothma made another of her meaningless _I’m listening_ noises. Jyn really didn’t think she was, but persisted. She wanted an explanation, and she was going to get it.

“You don’t want him for the battle,” she said, without a trace of doubt. “Even you lot couldn’t imagine he’s fit for flying a starfighter. It’d be a waste, anyway.” Cassian was a good pilot, as far as she could tell, but he was a better shot, a better spy, a better commander. Nobody with two brain cells to rub together would squander him on aerial battle. 

Anyway, whatever they wanted him to do, Mothma had spoken of it entirely in his capacity as a spy. A spy with a security droid protecting him, at that. Something dangerous, something with uncertain chance of reward. What was it?

Until that moment, Mothma had seemed poised to leave. Now, something about her settled, hands linking behind her back.

“Should we prevail today,” she said slowly, “we have …”

“Yes?” Not for the first time, Jyn wished Cassian would just wake up and take over the talking nonsense.

Melancholy settled over the senator like a cloak. Her jaw tightened, and now Jyn could see the heaviness in her eyes, the deeper lines about her set mouth. What the _hell_ had happened?

“We have,” said Mothma, “a recruitment opportunity.”


	2. Leia

It always felt strange to live undercover as herself. It felt stranger to know that she never would again.

Leia had done her work as Senator Organa of Alderaan—exploited her diplomatic immunity, picked up whispers and more among other politicians, periodically acted as courier. Now, the Senate was gone. _Alderaan_ was gone.

She would be the daughter of Alderaan for the rest of her life. Princess Leia, interminably.

Leia supposed she’d leave the intelligence division. The opportunity created by the Senate seat was what had made her such a valuable agent. She knew her strengths, and wouldn’t be challenged by those who lacked them, but she knew her weaknesses, too; she could better serve the Rebellion in almost any other capacity. Besides, her face would be instantly recognizable throughout much of the galaxy, after this. And her father had always involved her in High Command. She would just have to take up his place now.

_No time for sorrows_ , she reminded herself. The analysis must be nearly finished. She’d check on it herself if Draven hadn’t pulled rank and ordered her to medbay after the debrief. Ridiculous, at this point. If Vader—if the Imperials had done any serious harm, she would know.

Sure enough, the fussy droids milling about her just clicked and tsked about minor nerve damage. Of course she had that. It didn’t require the tank; they fixed her up with bacta patches, and ordered her to wait half an hour for a second test.

Bored within seconds of their departure, Leia poked her head out of the door, wondering if she could make her escape. But droids stalked up and down the hall, a team of them passing in and out of the room next to Leia’s. She felt a vague curiosity about that. Maybe one of the survivors of Scarif, though she doubted many of the wounded had made it out at all.

The entrance to the medbay itself was completely obstructed, but the hall did clear enough for her to slip out. With nothing better to do, Leia wandered out to see who else rated a private room.

As she surreptitiously pushed the other patient’s door from “ajar” to “open,” Leia saw a room identical to her own, but for the man and woman sleeping in it. The woman had curled her entire body into a chair; though not tall, she still looked uncomfortable, with one of her arms about her drawn-up knees and the other supporting her head on the armrest. She might well have been better-off on the floor. The man simply slept in the bed, face turned into his pillow, away from Leia and towards the woman.

Even across the room, at a difficult angle, he reminded her of—no, not—that couldn’t—

He stirred and turned his head to peer at her.

“¿Infanta?”

_Cassian Andor?_

Once, Leia knew Andor only as the the most orthodox and unyielding of her handlers, for all that he was also the youngest. Throughout her year of training and three in active intelligence work, her opinion of him evolved from disdain to respect for the qualities she respected in herself: efficiency, determination, dedication to the cause above any personal inclinations. But she never respected him more than when her father caught her in a hall of the base, and said _Andor went rogue._

Well, it took a few moments.

“Andor?” Leia had asked, incredulous. “Captain Andor? Went over to the Empire? I don’t believe it.”

It wasn’t that she couldn’t believe it of anyone. Andor, though? No. Her instincts always led her right, and she’d never picked up anything contrary to what he seemed: a man not precisely likable, but every bit as devoted to resistance and liberation as she herself could be. She had little impression of much else, except simmering fury whenever someone mentioned stormtroopers.

“No, no, not the Empire,” said Bail, looking horrified. Naturally, given that he’d entrusted her to Andor’s oversight for months on end. But his expression immediately warmed again, the comfortable weight of his hand settling on Leia’s shoulder. “He has an informant of sorts, the daughter of an Imperial scientist, who passed on the location of the plans to the Death Star. Her father told her that he’d sabotaged the whole project.” He shook his head, even as he kept his voice low. “It’s our only hope.”

His grim face would have told her High Command’s reaction, even if her own knowledge of them hadn’t.

“The council refused to do anything, didn’t they?” By strength of will, she kept herself from grinding her teeth. “I guess we’re the only ones allowed to take risks.”

“Captain Andor seems to have shared that view,” Bail said dryly. “It looks like he gathered a strike team while the girl distracted everyone, and they slipped away almost immediately afterwards.”

Leia could never have imagined Andor defying the Alliance—but if she had, that was exactly how she would expect him to do it. She rather regretted that she hadn’t gotten here in time to join the mission herself.

“So now we’re going to do something?” she asked.

“Raddus is ordering the fleet to back them,” said Bail. “That’s where you come in, Leia.”

She brightened, so obvious that her father grinned down at her, as he’d done so many times before.

“I’m meeting up with the fleet.”

“Yes,” he said unexpectedly. “The plans are on Scarif, in the Outer Rim. It’s practically next door to Tatooine, where I need you to go.”

“Tatooine?” Leia almost laughed. “What’s on Tatooine?”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” said Bail.

Only long practice kept her eyes from widening. Her parents had regaled her with the old stories from the time that she was old enough to keep her mouth shut about them. General Kenobi?

He went on, “It’s better if you don’t fly directly to the planet. If anyone were to realize that something specific drew you there …” A different sort of horror, deeper, shadowed him. “We can’t risk it. And now the plans have to take precedence. The  _Tantive IV_ is ready to fly you to Scarif. You’ll need to receive any transmissions from Andor’s team, find General Kenobi, and bring both to Alderaan.”

Easier said than done, but Leia didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll find a way.”

Her father’s hand tightened. Leaning down to kiss her forehead, he replied, “I know you will.”

That was the last time she saw him.

Even Andor, as far as she knew, died on that unauthorized mission. She saw the Death Star attack the station, irradiating everything for miles around. These days, the shock of that seemed … never trivial, certainly, but almost innocent. A single Imperial station! But a Rebel team fought down there, and none of them could have made it out alive. She carried the memory of the dead with her into the Death Star itself, tucked them into her mind for a different sort of fight.

Today, she carried—Force, she couldn’t think of it. But _infanta_ rattled around her head, her chest, a piercing shard that tore at her everywhere it went. Worse than _princess_ by far.

Leia didn’t flinch. She was the daughter of the Queen of Alderaan, and though neither Breha nor Alderaan lived, she remained her mother’s daughter. If _infanta_ meant nothing else, it meant that. And she knew perfectly well that it would mean something else. An image to raise sympathy and force remembrance and—she felt sick. Yet she might achieve more for the Rebellion as _la Infanta de Alderán_ than she ever could with her blaster.

The Rebellion came first, always. She’d do anything, everything. She always would, but now there was no turning back.

“Infanta,” Andor said again, more certain. Appallingly weak, he pushed himself upright with the heels of his hands, looking surprised as he did so.

Leia set aside the wave of indulgent misery and strode over to the chair on his other side.

“Capitán,” she returned. “No estás muerto.”

Andor managed to seem amused without moving a muscle. “Estoy tan sorprendido como usted.”

Too dignified to wrinkle her nose, she flung herself into the chair and let her aching body slump. Andor didn’t look much better than she felt. Maybe worse. She’d never seen him so visibly fatigued, eyes heavy and skin drawn tight and pale. Narrowly escaping a Death Star blast could probably do that to you, though. Leia wouldn’t know. She’d only been on the other end.

“You look terrible,” she said. “What did you do?”

“Many things,” said Andor, dry as usual, though in the circumstances she doubted it was anything less than the truth. At her frown, he shook his head. “I only injured my spine.”

Leia barked a short laugh. “ _Only_ your spine?”

It was utterly characteristic, and utterly asinine. Andor himself would have lectured her for hours if she’d ever said anything remotely like it. Then again, the Rebellion needed her far more than him. Intelligence had many good agents, if few equal to Andor. His loss would be a blow, but not a devastating one. However, Leia had somehow turned into an icon of the Rebellion when she wasn’t looking. Even before: before she symbolized anything in particular, before she’d _achieved_ much of anything in particular. Before—

“I am alive,” Andor reminded her. “Not many can say the same.”

Again, Leia’s stomach turned. She crossed her arms and glanced around for something else to latch onto. Anything else.

Her gaze landed on the woman in the chair, ragged and weary. Not a Rebel. Though she wore half an Alliance uniform, it fit poorly, the oversized trousers hacked off at the ankles. And her dark leather jacket had nothing to do with any uniform. Leia was pretty sure she’d seen it before: on Andor, in the field.

Huh. She was attractive enough, but not what Leia would have supposed to be his type. Though she had no way of knowing his preferences, if he had any, this woman … well, she distinctly reminded Leia of Captain Solo. Asleep and all. Oh, not physically, but the scruffy hair, battered boots, carelessly tucked shirt, mediocre blaster in plain sight, leather jacket—it combined into a familiar picture. More familiar than Leia wanted it to be, anyway.

She found herself saying, “No sabía que tenías novia.”

“¿Qué?” Andor seemed genuinely puzzled until she nodded at the woman.

Whatever answer Leia might have anticipated, she certainly didn’t expect to see his face light up as he turned his eyes to the stranger. In four years, she’d never seen him so human.

“Ah. No es mi novia.”

Though she couldn’t have said why, she felt vaguely disappointed. “¿Tu amiga?”

Leia didn’t know he had any of those, either. Sure enough, Andor paused to consider it.

“Quizás.”

Enlightening. “Bueno, ¿quién es ella?”

“Jyn Erso,” he said proudly, as if the name should mean something to her. As if it should mean something extraordinary, at that.

If she’d said _compañera_ , Leia suspected she might have received a different answer. Who was this woman, if not a Rebel? And how had she gotten access to the base?

* * *

Jyn woke to a cramp in her neck and legs, and low murmurs not far away. The latter must have pulled her out of sleep, but gently; her mind drifted towards consciousness, unconcerned with danger or vulnerability. Even those times when she’d slipped into Cassian’s quarters and caught a few hours of rest in an actual bed, she always jolted awake into urgency, scarcely less exhausted than before. Here, contorted into a miserable medbay chair, she felt more refreshed than in days.

Their tones quiet and careful, the unknown others continued to talk. Not completely unknown, though: she’d recognize Cassian anywhere. He definitely sounded stronger. The other, a woman, spoke in a low but smooth voice, confidence in every syllable.

In that haze between sleep and alertness, it took Jyn a few moments to realize that she didn’t _understand_ the syllables. Odd.

“Ya veo. ¿La hija del científico?”

Cassian said, “Sí. ¿Ha oído hablar de ella?”

She held herself still, not tense, just letting mind and body pass into their proper strength. Alderaanian, Jyn thought. You couldn’t go far in the galaxy without running into it here and there, though she’d never learned. She wasn’t good with language, and Basic got her anywhere that Alderaanian would. But she remembered that Cassian spoke it, as she remembered every word on that hellish voyage from Scarif. Whatever the subject of the conversation, and whomever the other participant might be, they talked in his native language.

“—líder de nuestra misión.”

“Pensé que eras el líder,” said the woman.

He paused, then said, “Somos compañeros.”

It sounded nice, Jyn thought, opening her eyes. Maybe she _would_ learn, someday. As for now, she took advantage of Cassian’s focus on the other woman to study him through her eyelashes.

He did look better. Sort of. Tired and pale to be sure, but his eyes were alert, his skin had recovered its usual warm tones, and most promising of all, he sat upright without the support of the bed. No signs of extraordinary discomfort.

The doctor, she thought wryly, could live.

Jyn turned her attention on the woman opposite her. To her surprise, she was _young_ —younger than them, even. The voice had sounded older. With still-round cheeks, thin brows, wide dark eyes beneath them, and brown hair in a floppy plait over her shoulder, she looked twenty at most. And she ought to have seemed soft, forgettable; instead, something fierce and hard in her face lent as strong a presence as Mothma or Draven.

Though Jyn didn’t move a muscle beyond the twitch of her lids, she somehow caught the girl’s attention.

“Oh, she’s awake,” she said.

Cassian immediately turned to Jyn, sober manner brightening into his usual intensity. “Are you—”

“Alive,” mumbled Jyn, stirring and blinking blearily around. She dared a small yawn for effect, since it was only half-pretense anyway. She’d had a _very_ long two weeks.

“You could have slept in my quarters,” he said, plainly unconcerned with what this unknown Rebel might think of it. “You’ve already stolen my clothes.”

Jyn rather enjoyed the girl’s raised brows. Cassian’s frown, not so much.

“I _have_ slept in your quarters,” she told him. “I didn’t feel like it today.”

The frown only deepened.

So he didn’t remember. Not everything, anyway. She felt a touch of relief at that. A touch of bemusement, too, that he not only didn’t realize he’d wanted her to stay, but didn’t seem to _realize_ that he wanted it.

“You should at least have been given a bunk,” said Cassian. “How long has it been since we arrived? About a week?”

“The Rebellion’s had bigger concerns,” Jyn said. “Anyway, I don’t trust these people. They tried to get you to sign things when you were drugged out of your mind.”

“Who did?” said the girl sharply.

Jyn shrugged as she unwound herself from the chair and stretched. In a moment, her back gave a satisfying crack, while the girl sprang up, scowling. Much like Cassian, she held herself straight-backed and proud, maintaining every millimeter of her full height. Unlike him, however, that full height was … well, Jyn did not often need to _drop_ her gaze to meet someone’s eyes. But this girl had to be at least a couple of inches shorter than Jyn, her diminutive figure not helped by the white tunic and trousers hanging loosely about her body.

Before Jyn could be questioned by a tiny, teenaged stranger, Cassian interceded.

“Infanta,” he said, “this is Jyn Erso, as I told you, who led our mission and transferred the plans. Jyn, this is Princess Leia Organa, of—”

“—Rebel Intelligence,” said Princess Leia firmly, sticking her hand out over the bed. Awkwardly, Jyn reached over and shook it, since she could think of no way to refuse. But she extricated herself as soon as possible and sat back down.

There were few people in the galaxy whom Jyn felt less desire to know than Leia Organa. With deliberate effort, she relaxed her jaw.

Cassian, meanwhile, managed to look both expressionless and startled. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the interruption, or at least its contents. Of course not: as far as she could tell, he hadn’t _heard_.

“Intelligence? Do you work together?” Jyn asked. She neither knew nor cared, but felt ready to grasp at anything that might redirect him.

“Not directly,” said Cassian. “Not any more, that is.”

He didn’t know why Leia was here, she realized. Here at the base, not just in this private room. The latter was a mystery to Jyn, too. Another angle from Mothma?

“General Draven felt I needed someone to hold my hand at first,” Princess Leia said. As stern as Draven himself could be, she added, “Captain Andor was the lucky victim.”

“Your work is important,” he said simply.

Fuck.

“Was,” corrected Princess Leia, before Jyn could think of a new detour. “Haven’t you heard?”

Jyn tensed. Cassian seemed to notice; while he didn’t return her gave, his attention drifted her way, to go by an infinitesimal shift towards her. Only then did she realize that she’d wrapped her fingers around his wrist again, tightly enough that even her short nails bit into his skin. It must hurt, if nothing to everything they’d been through lately, and Jyn thought about releasing her grip. She didn’t want to, though, so she didn’t.

“The Emperor dissolved the Senate,” said the princess. Her face gave nothing away, nor anything else—not a blink, not a twitch. Alderaan made them tough, apparently. 

Or had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) _Infanta/la Infanta de Alderán_ : princess/the princess of Alderaan; more explanation under the notes on [the fic this sprawled out of](http://anghraine.tumblr.com/post/160483594083/in-tongues-and-quiet-sighs-fic).
> 
> 2) _Capitán. No estás muerto_ : Captain. You’re not dead. (Leia is truly a miracle of warmth and charm.)
> 
> 3) _Estoy tan sorprendido como usted_ : I’m as surprised as you [formal—more on that under the parent fic, too].
> 
> 4) _No sabía que tenías novia_ : I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.
> 
> 5) _¿Qué?_ : What?
> 
> 6) _Ah, no es mi novia_ : Ah, she isn’t my girlfriend.
> 
> 7) _¿Tu amiga?_ : Your friend?
> 
> 8) _Quizás_ : Perhaps.
> 
> 9) _Bueno, ¿quién es ella?_ : Well, who is she?
> 
> 10) _compañero/a_ : broader in usage than English companion—it can be friend/companion, but also partner, colleague, comrade, significant other, etc. Leia realizes that Cassian does have a significant relationship with Jyn; she just phrased the question too precisely.
> 
> 11) _Ya veo. ¿La hija del científico?_ : I see. The daughter of the scientist? (When Jyn is going, well, whatever they’re talking about—they’re talking about her.)
> 
> 12) _Sí. ¿Ha oído hablar de ella?_ : Yes. Have you[formal] heard of her?
> 
> 13) _—líder de nuestra misión_ : —leader of our mission.
> 
> 14) _Pensé que eras el líder_ : I thought you were the leader.
> 
> 15) _Somos compañeros_ : We’re partners/companions. (As Leia suspected, he does accept the more ambiguous term—and while theoretically talking about their position in the mission, he says ‘we **are** partners’ rather than ‘we were.’)


	3. Cassian

Out of exhaustion or shock, Cassian stared at Princess Leia. “Dissolved the Senate? Then who …”

“Regional governors,” said the princess. “Not that it matters, really. I already broke cover above Scarif.”

“You were at Scarif?” he demanded.

Princess Leia lifted her chin. Heading her off, Jyn said,

“She’s the one who received the plans, Cassian.”

He just blinked, as if unable to process it. Maybe he knew something about Leia that Jyn didn’t. Not that Jyn knew anything about her at all, except her identity, and her role as courier, and … the other.

Slowly, he replied, “I don’t understand.” Turning a new frown—puzzled rather than indignant—on the princess, he shifted slightly nearer to Jyn. She couldn’t see why, considering the confinement of the bed and her own bruising grip on his wrist. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“I already had an errand on Tatooine,” Princess Leia said, not even pretending to patience. “We couldn’t chance our odds with the battle even before the Death Star showed up, so—”

“You didn’t know that I was alive,” interrupted Cassian. “You didn’t know about Jyn. You can’t have been here long. You’re—”

Okay, that was faster than she’d expected. Now he held himself as stiffly as Jyn, eyes narrowed at the princess. Jyn didn’t have his information, the familiarity that would let her catch some significant change from the usual. But she was a good judge, regardless.

“Why  _are_  you here?” Jyn asked. She’d blurted it out, but now that she mentioned it, she did wonder. It took no effort at all to look as if she found it suspicious. “Did the Council send you?”

Leia seemed about to say something, but paused. “More or less.”

Definitely hiding something, Jyn thought. Cassian gave no hint either way; sitting in a hospital gown, upright for the first time in days, fingers curled towards Jyn’s hand on him, he managed to exude professional neutrality.

She loosened her grip just enough to rest her fingertips over his pulse. Not quick and thready, like at first, nor the sluggish beat she’d felt when they drugged him. His blood thudded a steady, even rhythm through his veins, just as the droids had assured her it would. But Jyn trusted the things she wanted to believe even less than the ones she didn’t. This, she could feel with her own senses, the thrum of life under her fingers.

_Mine_ , she thought involuntarily. No, she didn’t mean it. Did she? She’d saved that life, first on Jedha, and then when she all but single-handedly carted him out of the Citadel. Of course, he’d saved hers too, and probably more times. If either might have incurred any debt, it had to be cancelled out by now. He owed her nothing but respect and some amount of loyalty, but—it was just—

“Well, whatever they want, it’s going to have to wait,” Jyn said. “He’s still recovering.”

Cassian tensed. “If the Rebellion needs me—”

“It doesn’t,” said the princess, with unconcealed exasperation. Not much of a spy, was she? “Not today, at any rate. Can you walk?”

Jyn’s discomfort thawed, slightly. “We don’t know yet. He just came out of bacta, and his fourth surgery before that.”

“Surgery?” Leia regarded Cassian with a mix of respect and displeasure. “More than one? Then you’ll definitely need recovery time. I thought it was like—” Her face tightened. “You won’t be doing anything for awhile, Andor. You’d better get used to the idea.”

He scowled. “Your Highness, you know that’s not a possibility.”

“What, do you think you’re irreplaceable?” demanded Leia. “The only injured soldier here? Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll treat you like anyone else.”

Torn between relief and annoyance, Jyn said, “See? I’m right.”

“Anyway, you’ll be given what work you can manage,” Leia told him. “The same as anyone else. I’m sure Draven will find something that suits your … uh. Talents.”

Jyn didn’t really see how useful spying could be in the heart of the Rebellion. To go by his face, neither did Cassian.

“Yes, there are so many people to recruit here,” he said.

“Not into the Rebellion,” said Leia. “But into Intelligence? Sure. Derlin’s wife, say.”

His expression instantly went from disdainful skepticism to alarm. “Major Derlin has a wife? Since when?”

“Yesterday,” she said smugly. “I only heard about it on the way here. Apparently, he eloped with Maru Issa out of Central. That is, moved to shared quarters on the other side of the base.”

Cassian, usually so contained, looked completely baffled. “Derlin?” He paused. “And Issa? Isn’t she …”

“Maybe twenty-five,” the princess confirmed. “Force knows what she sees in him. Except the moustache, I guess.”

Jyn, not understanding above a quarter of this if that, frowned. She certainly would never have envisioned Cassian and the princess of Alderaan gossiping about a superior officer. Maybe all the spies were like that, but it was … difficult to imagine, even with it happening in front of her.

“Moustaches aren’t exactly rare,” she pointed out, with a meaningful glance at Cassian. After one surprised look, he bit his lip, and Jyn shifted her eyes.

Leia snorted. “Believe me, Derlin’s is exceptionally rare. He isn’t that bad, himself—”

“He’s a tyrant,” said Cassian coldly.

“I can’t believe you’re holding a grudge over something that happened before you could shave.” Leia shook her head. “Let it go. Well, they must have hidden the relationship very well. Doesn’t seem like Draven knew. He’s already plotting how to poach Issa, so I’m sure you can make yourself useful.”

“Hm,” he said.

To Jyn, that approach seemed as bizarre as it was trivial. Saw always split up couples. Even if a relationship lasted longer than most of them did, the intensity couldn’t begin to compensate for distraction and jumbled priorities.

Cassian looked up at her and winced. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t—we try to keep spouses together.”

“In the Rebellion?” Jyn said. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Obviously, for military operations,” replied Leia, with the edge of impatience that Jyn was already finding familiar. “This is Intelligence.”

Brows raised, Jyn didn’t bother responding to an answer so blatantly inadequate. It was Cassian, instead, who filled the gap.

“Lone operatives are vulnerable, and some objectives require partnerships,” he said in his low, level voice. She vastly preferred it to Leia’s harsh one. “Those are safer if the partners trust each other, feel comfortable, know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. And the leadership’s view is that keeping spouses together can strengthen their … investment in success.”

“Investment,” repeated Jyn.

Leia gave a short laugh. “An agent who loses their nerve is much more likely to find it again with a”—she slanted a glance at Cassian—“ _companion_  at stake. So I hear.”

Jyn didn’t know whether the princess meant that she’d never had a lover or never lost her nerve. Either seemed entirely possible.

“Huh,” she said, remembering Draven’s open hostility when she admitted to her hesitation in the vault.

Interesting.

* * *

After five minutes of dull nothings, Leia had yet to explain her presence. Was it about Alderaan? She hadn’t appeared to recognize or expect Jyn, but that didn’t have to mean anything, with a spy. Still, she seemed very much more focused on Cassian, and she hadn’t outright denied that Command sent her here, even if she didn’t bring immediate trouble with her.

“I’m a patient, not a visitor,” Leia said abruptly, as if reading her mind, though her attention stayed on Cassian. “You can stop trying to figure out some secret purpose, Andor. Draven insisted on an examination and I’m waiting on the droids, that’s all.”

Jyn felt slightly more suspicious. “Glad we could help you pass the time. Right, Cassian?”

“Right.” He met her glance with a slight upwards twitch of his brow, cooperation flowing as easily and naturally as it had on Scarif. “Did you tell the droids to meet you in my room, or …?”

The princess rolled her eyes. “They won’t have trouble finding me. I was curious about seeing a dead man and a strange woman in the next room.”

“Thanks?” said Jyn.

“How did you two make it out, anyway?” Leia folded her arms, her back steel-straight. “Never mind that, how did you make it through?”

She didn’t look particularly interested. Intrigued, perhaps—somewhat. Mostly just talking for the sake of talking. Jyn didn’t go in for that, as a rule. But it took no great leap of imagination to guess why Leia Organa might want a distraction.

Beside Jyn, Cassian shifted. He didn’t know, she didn’t want him to know yet, but Jyn felt certain he meant to respond with the same terse summary she herself would have offered in other circumstances. If she would have offered anything at all. Now, though … Jyn could give the princess of Alderaan her moment’s diversion.

“I’m sure I’ll be briefed eventually,” Leia added. “Unless it’s classified?”

“I don’t think so,” said Jyn. She looked quizzically at Cassian, and he shook his head. “Well, we had disguises to get into the facility. Cassian passed as an Imperial officer, and I was a technician, and of course K-2SO …”

She swallowed, Cassian’s arm tightening beneath her fingers. Jyn didn’t see anything in his face, nor expect to, but his nails dug into his palm. When he forced the hand straight, the curved impressions lingered in his skin.

“Kaytoo was Kaytoo,” she finished.

Even here, packed into the tiny room with Cassian, awkward and uncomfortable around the princess, she could hear his screams as Kay died. Like her own, when her father—Papa—Papa, who’d—it wasn’t his fault. He was a prisoner. There’d be no hope at all if he hadn’t seized the chance for sabotage. Just Jedha and Scarif and Alderaan, over and over and over.

Had Princess Leia screamed?

Jyn shoved the thought out of her mind, and felt a moment’s unexpected gratitude that she’d been forced to recount her actions so many times already. By this point, she could do it without thinking, almost detached from the rise and fall of her own voice. The only hesitation came from Cassian’s presence at her side: or rather, her consciousness of it, of his separate perceptions, since he corrected nothing and only interjected here and there.

“—Cassian took out two of the deathtroopers, but he got shot and fell.”

“How far?” Leia demanded.

“A bit,” said Cassian.

Jyn scoffed. “A few levels, with some beams to hit on the way down. You’re lucky you’ll walk.”

“I’m lucky I’ll live,” he said, which she couldn’t really disagree with.

“Back there, I didn’t realize you had.” With a deep breath, Jyn focused back on Princess Leia. “I thought about climbing down to him, but I—”

Cassian’s arm jerked. “You  _what?_ ”

He was staring at her in what looked like utter horror. With a twist of his wrist, his fingers gripped her hand. “You thought about dropping to that platform? With the plans?”

“Only for a second,” she said dismissively.

“You could have died. The fall alone—”

“You’d know,” said Jyn.

“I did not fall on purpose!”

“You’re still being a hypocrite.” At his disbelieving expression, she lifted her chin, and dug her own fingers into his hand for good measure. “How many times have you risked our mission? I’m sure General Draven would love to hear about you getting tossed into a cell for shooting one of Saw’s people to protect me. Or about you going back for me with Jedha crumbling above us.”

Colour crawled up his cheeks, which Jyn counted as victory. “Keeping you alive was a requirement of the mission, Jyn.”

“Only to contact Saw,” she retorted. “You’d already found Bodhi, and somehow I don’t think your mission parameters included getting crushed in a bunker. Or blown up by Alliance bombs on Eadu.  _You_  didn’t just consider taking a risk, you actually did it.”

Jyn remembered pulling the plans out of the archives, the unexpected force propelling her arm with the weight of the data tapes, body swinging and Cassian crying  _careful!_  His fingers instinctively reached towards her—for the tapes, she’d assumed, though without any possibility of reaching them. But no  _do this-do that_  followed the fumbling outstretch of his hand, no urgent warning, just  _you okay?_

Settling into a comfortable sense of righteousness, she decided that he had no moral ground whatsoever. Or pragmatic ground, at least.

“Those aren’t the same,” he insisted. “There were others to send ahead, and no certainty. You had the plans.”

Words aside, he sounded much less indignant, face calm again. His grip had relaxed but for the aimless pressure of his thumb on the side of her hand. Under her skin, her blood seemed to track it, a stream of warmth flowing back and forth.

“Not that this discussion isn’t fascinatingly insane,” said Leia, eyeing them, “but I still don’t know how you got out.”

With a final vindictive clench of her fingers, Jyn withdrew. “Well, Cassian was completely still by the time his body hit the bottom, and—the angles were wrong. I assumed the worst and kept climbing.”

The rest of the story only took up a minute or two, with almost the entire battle passing beyond her own observation. After all, though she and Cassian had been soldiers from childhood, they left that to others on Scarif. They split off as thief and spy: by now, the roles that fit them best. With only a glimpse of the battlefield as she and Cassian hobbled into their stolen shuttle, neither could recount anything beyond the merest details. Jyn didn’t even know how her friends had died, if it were blasterfire or explosions, something lingering or that terrible wave of light. Selfishly, she hoped for one of the first; she hated the idea of anything protracted, all the more a creeping, remote death that could not be fought or resisted. As it was, too many must have died that way. She would let herself believe that three men in that vast battle had found quicker ends.

Cassian stayed silent through the end of Jyn’s recital, no longer offering even his slight additions and asides. He looked a bit like he had under the drugs; not dazed, but certainly distracted, almost puzzled. Some idea must have caught his attention. Maybe Derlin of the moustache and marriage and long-ago offense.

Although she had no idea what the man had done, Jyn couldn’t help but respect Cassian’s decade-long grudge. She herself did not easily form grudges, but when she did, she kept them well-polished for years on end. If other people wanted to be weak and inconstant, that wasn’t her problem. Or Cassian’s, apparently.

Leia was asking him something about his climb to the roof, which Jyn had never really wondered about, beyond the fact of it. There was only one way up.

“But if you’ve got spinal injuries, then I don’t see how you climbed a vault.”

“The same way I climb anything,” said Cassian. “Just more painfully. You’d do the same.”

“Yes, but you’re not—” The princess’s limited supply of tact snapped off the end of the sentence.

“I’m not you,” he agreed. “Speaking of which,  _did_  you do the same?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Leia.

She could hardly have sounded more unconvincing. It was rather like watching a speeder crash, Jyn thought, resigned. You could see it coming, but nothing you might try would actually stop it from happening.

“I’m talking about your escape from the Empire,” Cassian said.

The princess’s jaw tightened. Otherwise, she gave no sign of surprise. “No. A Jedi apprentice broke me out of prison, and we swung  _over_  an abyss, not out of one.”

All right, Jyn hadn’t known about that. How could a Jedi apprentice even exist? Weren’t they all … maybe she meant someone like Chirrut? But some might have escaped, surely. There’d been so many, once. If so, she could only imagine how thrilled Chirrut would have been. And her mother—

She stiffened, holding herself firm against the heavy, twisting sensation in her gut.

“An abyss?” said Cassian. “What sort of prison were you in?”

“I’m sure Draven will tell you.” Then, seeming to reconsider, Leia shrugged. “The Death Star.”

“A Jedi broke you out of the Death Star?” There was, at least, some small pleasure in seeing him so utterly flabbergasted. The princess actually smiled.

Not that Jyn felt any different. Trapped  _inside_  the Death Star was—she couldn’t imagine it. Escaping it, still less.

“How did you get away?” Cassian demanded. “What did you do with the plans? Has the Empire seen them?”

Leia gave a long-suffering sigh. “Obi-Wan Kenobi and a smuggler helped us escape in his ship. I’d hidden the plans in my astromech droid, ejected him in an escape pod, and sent him to find General Kenobi before I was captured. He was never found by the Empire, so I can’t see any way they might have discovered the plans. We’re analyzing them now.” She rose to her feet, rubbing one hand against a clenched fist. “It’s got to be nearly done. Where are those damn droids? I need to get back to Command before the Death Star arrives.”

“Arrives here?” Cassian’s face went expressionless. Without warning, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and was on his way to his feet by the time Jyn could react. She reflexively pressed her arm against his chest.

“You don’t have permission to get up yet.”

“Since when do you care about permissions?” said Cassian, in his most reasonable tone.

Jyn scowled. “Since I picked up a partner with all the self-interest of a five-year-old.”

She wouldn’t have believed him capable of real embarrassment, but a flush ran up his cheeks again, even as he grasped her wrist. Still, he didn’t look embarrassed beyond that, just startled and uncomfortable, wetting his lip as he looked down at her arm. Well, if he was searching for weaknesses, he wouldn’t find them. Certainly not in his current state. Maybe he meant to catch her off-guard; his own grip had lightened as soon as she spoke.

“That’s an insult to children,” Leia said.

“ _Thank you_ , Infanta.” Ineffectively, he tried to push Jyn’s arm away. “You’re sure the Death Star is coming?”

“Yes,” said Leia. “That idiot Solo—the smuggler—well, the ship was bugged. I figured that we’re doomed if we can’t take out the Death Star, anyway, so we might as well bring it into a convenient range.”

She said this as matter-of-factly as she might have explained hair-braiding techniques. This tiny girl had bet the survival of the Rebellion on a message that the Rebellion itself had rejected. They’d backed Rogue One on Scarif, to be sure. Eventually. Jyn’s transmission would never have reached anyone without the fleet above them. Even so, a battle above an Imperial station was not at all the same as risking the entire Rebellion on faith in—in her father. In Jyn’s own account of him, and his execution of his planned sabotage. Within the day, she would live to see him vindicated, or join him in the Force. She and Cassian both.

And every single person here, of course. But she knew them only as components of the Rebellion; it was as components of the Rebellion that she dreaded their deaths. Should she survive, Jyn would continue on her path, with or without them. If Cassian died—

“Jyn?” He was frowning up at her, instead of down at the arm restraining him. His expression had gone from uneasy and impatient to something softer, eyes steady and concerned. “What is it?”

Behind him, even Leia studied Jyn’s face. She couldn’t quite care, except to wish that the princess would go away. Unfair, but Jyn would rather not contemplate her death, Cassian’s death, with a stranger looking on. All the more  _because_  it was a stranger to whom she owed gratitude. A great deal more than gratitude.

“Nothing,” she said, returning her attention to Cassian, and relieved at the steadiness of her voice.

Jyn didn’t want to die. She supposed she could still escape it: abandon this place where she’d never truly been welcome, even do it in the hope of fighting another day. There were many ways to fight. But she had no more intention of leaving now than she had when she spoke with Mothma. She’d stayed with Cassian on Scarif for a reason, hung onto him when he could offer nothing but a burden on her shoulders. If he died, she had meant to die with him, fighting the Empire. She still did.

Put that way, it sounded like—she didn’t want to think of what it sounded like. She’d spent fifteen years trying to forget.

“Shouldn’t the doctor be here by now?” Jyn said, grasping at the first thing to come to mind. “I don’t know how long we slept, but the droids could be conducting tests, or  _something._  How is the pain?”

Plainly undeterred, Cassian ignored this to examine her more closely. His dark eyes had widened, concern ratcheting into alarm.

“Is it your leg? They might have missed something.”

“That was a  _sprain_ ,” she said irritably.

“Obviously it wouldn’t be a sprain if they did miss something,” said Leia, with every appearance of indifference.

“Thank you,” Jyn grumbled. “No, they didn’t.”

Cassian’s frown deepened. “Some other injury, then. Your shoulder?”

“No,” she said, both aggravated and warmed. “I’m fine, except for my father’s monstrosity coming to destroy all life.”

“Jyn—”

She was not going to have this conversation around Princess Leia. Jyn dropped her arm and turned towards the door.

“I’m going to see where those droids are.”

By some luck—amazing that she had any left—the door whooshed ope. A 2-1B droid, perhaps the one that Jyn had already dealt with, stalked in.

“Speak of the Sith,” Leia remarked.

The droid swivelled to study her, unimpressed. “Leia Organa. You are not medical personnel. You have not been authorized—”

“You’re here to test Captain Andor?” she said. “I was just leaving.”

“Your treatment will be administered in four and a half minutes,” it informed her. “Captain. Please remove your outer covering for the examination.”

“I’ll be outside,” Jyn said hastily.

She and Leia escaped with remarkable speed for two women under a hundred and sixty centimeters. Almost as soon as they did, however, Jyn realized that she had no idea what to do next. She couldn’t go anywhere until the examination finished; she couldn’t order the princess away; she didn’t want to talk. Leia, for her part, seemed no more comfortable; nevertheless, she didn’t return to her own room.

Jyn refused to fidget, but the impulse was there. However little she’d wanted to be around Leia with Cassian, still less did she want to be around Leia  _without_  Cassian.

Finally, she said,

“What is your treatment for?”

“Minor nerve damage,” said the princess.

Jyn inhaled. There were only so many ways that someone in Imperial custody would end up with nerve damage. Minor or not.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

“What for?” said Leia, her entire body facing straight ahead.

That came as a relief. Jyn would have had to meet her gaze otherwise, unflinching, and—it was easier, this way, to say what she knew had to be said.

“About your planet.”

Leia’s voice only grew harder. “Thank you.”

For another minute, they stood in an even more intensely awkward silence. Then the princess said,

“I don’t blame him.”

Now Jyn did look at her. It wasn’t particularly enlightening; Leia didn’t move, her face as stony as her voice.

“Sorry?”

“Dr Erso,” she said, glance flicking in Jyn’s direction. Just a moment. “He didn’t order the attack, and he’s dead in any case. The Empire did this.” Her right hand curled into a fist. “And the Empire will pay for this.”

It was nothing Jyn didn’t know already.  _She_  certainly didn’t consider her father responsible for this, never had. Nevertheless, the tight ball of tension under her ribs unravelled, a little.

“Yes,” said Jyn. “They will.”

The door opened again, and 2-1B emerged—with Cassian, fully dressed, behind it. He walked with a cane, presumably extracted from one of the medical cabinets, and a slight limp. But he was walking, and with no signs of pain.

Jyn grinned, wide and unhesitating. She didn’t even try repressing it. He smiled back, the unsteady curve of his mouth as quick and thoughtless as her own.

“Cassian! You’re—” She’d already taken an eager step forward, but self-consciousness caught up with her, and she rocked back. “You’re discharged?”

“Against my advice,” said 2-1B.

“I’m not waiting in a bed,” Cassian retorted, which was so precisely what Jyn would have said that she almost smiled again.

The droid gave an annoyed click. “You’ll be expected back for tests  _every day_ , Captain, or we will send a very stern message to your superior officer—”

“Yes, yes,” said Cassian. “Are you ready to go, Jyn?”

Leia regarded them both thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Jyn said. “Yesterday.”

* * *

Jyn and Cassian both said their farewells to Princess Leia—Jyn thought with very admirable cordiality—before 2-1B ushered her off. Then they were something like free, walking side-by-side out of the medical bay and into the sunlight.

After all her annoyance, now she almost felt uncomfortable  _not_  having someone else around. Ridiculous.

She cast a sideways glance at him, as brief as she could make it. His clothes hung on him more than ever. That was ridiculous, too.

“Have you eaten today?” Cassian said abruptly.

Jyn prickled. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been there almost every time I woke up,” he replied. His fingers twisted on the cane. “It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been eating regularly on that schedule, but I wasn’t sure, with you wearing my clothes and all.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you want to know,” said Jyn, doubtful.

Cassian gave her an incredulous look. “You considered climbing  _down the vault_  and you’ve been hovering for days. I think I can ask if you’re hungry.”

_Oh._

“Are you planning on holding that against me forever?” Before he could answer, she added, “Besides, I don’t have any other clothes to wear.”

“I don’t mind.” Cassian’s voice sounded off. He cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything else.

It soothed her, some, that he was so obviously as uneasy as Jyn herself. It soothed her in a different way that he wasn’t trying to hide it, that he never did.

“Except Kay,” Cassian started to say.

She didn’t have to wonder at the edge in his tone, this time. Just hearing  _Kay_ had her own mind spinning back, and he’d been incalculably less to her. She had no idea what he was aiming at, though. Or what it had to do with anything else they’d said.

Jyn waited, silent. Words did not often come easily to her, and she knew better than to risk them when she didn’t understand. Cassian, though, always found something to say; he’d find words sooner or later.

He turned his face away, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Jyn wasn’t sure if she wished he’d stop doing that, or … not.

“No one’s ever—”

_Oh_ , she thought again. And it wasn’t hard to say,

“Me either.”

Cassian turned back to her, his smile slight and hesitant this time, but no less warm. His eyes did the work of that—a nonsensical idea, but it caught her as she looked and looked back, her own eyes held wide open under the Yavin sunshine. Without a word or gesture, they’d stopped their aimless walk.

“All right,” Jyn said. “I’m starving.”


End file.
